


There Once Was an Agent at SHIELD

by McEnchilada



Series: Limericks Are Romantic [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint flirts with limericks, Crack, Getting Together, M/M, Ridiculous, and limericks, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McEnchilada/pseuds/McEnchilada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint flirts with limericks, and Phil absolutely does not find him adorable at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Once Was an Agent at SHIELD

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for this fic. It's late, I'm tired, and limericks seemed like a really good idea until I had reached over two thousand words and was forced to question all of my life choices.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Sort of inspired by the [The Stark Guide™ to Mission Reports](http://archiveofourown.org/works/400257), which is awesome and should be read by everyone.

_There once was an agent at SHIELD,_

_Who, though I was fully healed,_

_Kept me with the meds,_

_Who filled me with dread,_

_Instead of letting me back in the field._

Phil found the poem scribbled on a purple sticky note at the top of Barton's most recent mission report. He read it over, and couldn't help the slight huff of amusement that escaped him. He peeled the note off and stuck it in the top drawer of his desk so that it wouldn't end up lost, and picked up his phone and dialed Barton's number.

"Barton," the archer greeted when he picked up.

"Poetry aside, agent," said Phil, without preamble, "you are in medical because you sustained a concussion last mission, and were unconscious for several minutes. We want to be sure that there's no lasting brain damage." He glanced down at the note again, a square of bright purple amidst the drawer's clutter of pens and paperclips and extra ammo. "Given your new chosen form of communication, I think we have reason for concern."

"Aw, come on, Coulson, I'm bored in here. There's nothing worse off in my brain than there was before, I swear."

"And the reason for the limerick?"

" _Bored_ ," he repeated, in a whiny tone. "So. Painfully. Bored. Coulson, I am _begging_ you, break me out of here. Or at least bring me a coffee, they won't let me have any caffeine and it's driving me fucking nuts."

"I am not going to do anything that goes against the orders of a medical professional," Phil replied, keeping his voice flat. Barton groaned over-dramatically, and Phil had to fight the twitch of a smile. "And if you disappear into the vents again, I'm revoking your range privileges for the rest of the week. Stay in medical until you are released, _by a doctor_ , or you're going to regret it." Another hearty groan. "Try working on your poetry, your rhymes could use some work."

"I am going to spam you with poetry," Barton warned. "You'll get so many limericks that you'll be begging me to stop, and I won't. I'll never stop. So many limericks, Coulson. Do you think you can handle all of them? I'm going to make them really, really dirty, too. So dirty. 'There once was a guy called Phil'--"

Phil hung up, not sure he wanted to know how the poem continued.

\- - -

_There once was a guy called Phil_

_Who let hold me against my will_

_A whole bunch of nurses,_

_And told me to write verses_

_Since I had so much time to kill. ___

__Phil found the next limerick, again on a sticky note, on a mug of coffee left on his desk. After reading it, he looked up at the poet, who was sprawled along the couch in Phil's office. Barton caught his look, and shrugged._ _

__"Couldn't think of any good dick jokes that rhymed with Phil, sir," he said, flashing a grin. Phil raised an eyebrow, and the grin widened. "I'll try harder next time."_ _

____

\- - -

_I'm thinking of jokes about dicks,_

_But the rhyme scheme always just sticks_

_This sounded so easy,_

_A poem made sleazy,_

_But nothing is seeming to click._

The third was scrawled on the back of a receipt from a coffee shop, and written in purple gel pen. Phil rolled his eyes and refused to smile as he added it to the drawer along with the other two.

\- - -

_So you got hurt, which is shitty,_

_But I know you don't want any pity,_

_So I'm writing this poem_

_While you're totally stoned_

_So you'll maybe feel better, a bitty."_

Phil didn't know where Barton had found a bright purple sharpie, since he hadn't been released from medical and his sprained shoulder prevented him from escaping through the vents, but he somehow had. The poem written on the cast on Phil's leg was proof of that. He had to crane his neck to read the last few lines of it, and allowed a small smile as he did. 

"'A bitty'?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. Barton, sitting in the bed next to his, and for once not looking too uncomfortable to be in medical, rolled his eyes. 

"Hey, you weren't the only one they drugged. Pain meds mess with my laureate-worthy rhyming." 

It was Phil's turn to roll his eyes. "Well, if that's what you want to call it--" He was cut off by a pillow to the face, and couldn't help but laugh as he threw it back at the archer. 

__

\- - -

_Sorry that I'm such a dumbass_

_And that you had to clean up my mess._

_Thanks for keeping it real,_

_During my time at SHIELD,_

_You're the only one I'm going to miss._

Phil glanced down at the mission report in front of him when Clint nudged his arm, and noticed the poem jotted in the margin. He picked up his own pen and wrote, "Rhymes could use work," but met Clint's eyes and gave him a small smile that was meant to be reassuring. Clint's returning smile was weary and regretful, clearly not at all hopeful about how this debriefing was going to turn out.

"So," Director Fury began, folding his hands in front of him and casting his one-eyed gaze over the both of them, "if you two are done passing notes, maybe you'd care to explain to me why you, Barton, went against direct orders; why you, Coulson, let him; and why we've got the world's most deadly assassin sitting pretty in the cells instead of in a morgue?"

Clint opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but Coulson beat him to it. "Sir, I gave Agent Barton permission to ignore the order to terminate the Black Widow. He suggested, and I agreed, that she can and will make a valuable asset for SHIELD. She has no loyalties to either the Red Room or any of her past employers, and while I don't believe she'll consider herself tied to us, either, she isn't going to turn on us while we're paying her."

Fury nodded slowly, and Phil went on, "As for Barton's disobeying orders, I'm the one who told him to stand down on the kill order. If anyone should be blamed for it, it's me." Clint started forward in his seat, but Phil shot him a warning glance and he leaned back, looking slightly sullen and more than a little worried.

Fury let them sit in silence for a very long moment before finally standing up. "We'll see how this works out, then. Barton, she followed you home, make sure she behaves if you want to keep her. Coulson, god help you with the both of them. And god help _me_ , if either of you ever pull a stunt like this again you will both be working training exercises with new recruits for a _year_."

He swept out, his long black coat making his exit even more dramatic. Phil exhaled slowly, standing up and gathering the papers in front of him. Clint stood up as well, and laid his hand on Phil's shoulder almost hesitantly.

"Coulson...thanks." He shrugged awkwardly. "For, y'know, all of it. Taking my word on Nat, and defending me and shit. You didn't have to. Most people wouldn't've."

"Of course I did. My job is dealing with you so the rest of SHIELD doesn't have to, that's what handlers are for." Barton snorted a wry laugh and started to turn away, but Phil stopped him with a hand on his arm. "And after five years working together, I am, I'd like to think, your friend, Barton. Clint." It felt strange to say, heavy and awkward, but worth it when Clint smiled at him. "I wouldn't have let SHIELD get rid of you, not if I could help it."

He picked up the stack of papers and swept his thumb across the poem written on the top sheet. "I'd miss you, too."

\- - -

_So Nat and I shot lots of bad guys,_

_The illustrious Widow and Hawkeye,_

_Undercover at a ball,_

_The fairest of them all._

_You know I really fucking hate wearing ties._

Phil would never admit to even thinking it, but Clint in a suit had been...memorable. It had fit him wonderfully, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist, and the amethyst tie had suited him (hah) perfectly. It had been hard not to stare, even when the predicted assassins had shown up to spoil the party and Natasha and Clint had leapt into action.

Not that Clint looking rumpled and battered in the suit, afterwards, had been any less distracting. Phil had been trying to convince himself for months (years) that he didn't feel anything for Clint beyond friendship that wouldn't cause any sort of awkwardness between the two of them, but then things like this mission happened. 

Things like this mission and Clint trying for puppy eyes, standing on the other side of his desk and doing his best to look innocent while Phil reread his rather succinct mission report. Phil sighed.

"I thought you were done with the limericks." It had been six months without a single one, not even one about how shitty SHIELD's coffee was (and there had been several of those, over the years); not that Phil would admit to having missed them.

Clint shrugged. "I got bored. You looked like you could use some rhyming to brighten your day. I'm a born poet and I just can't stop rhyming." A pause, while Phil waited patiently. "I didn't feel like writing a mission report?"

"Too bad," Phil replied, smiling slightly when Clint groaned over-dramatically. "Rewrite this, please, I'd like it done by the end of the day." Clint pouted, and it was absolutely not adorable at all.

\- - -

_I swear by my own fucking bow_

_These juniors are just begging to know_

_How well I can aim;_

_Am I really to blame_

_If I make just a couple of them explode?_

Phil frowned at the sticky note left on the door of his office, and went in search of Clint. He found him, as predicted, on the range, shooting arrow after arrow into a target and looking supremely annoyed. Phil waited patiently for him to empty the quiver he had, and then stepped forward.

"What's your problem with the junior agents? Any issues I need to deal with?"

Clint glanced up at him, and his frustrated expression almost immediately became softer, less tense. He sighed and began packing his bow away carefully. "Nothing particular, sir, just general stupidity that comes with being fresh from the CIA or wherever you find these guys." He methodically disassembled and cleaned each component of the bow before packing it away in its case; it was strangely soothing for Phil to watch Clint's strong, sure fingers running through the familiar motions.

"It annoyed you enough that you were rhyming, Clint," he pointed out, dropping some of the Agent Coulson stiffness. "What's bothering you?"

Clint gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Just their usual pointless gossip bullshit." Phil raised an eyebrow, and he sighed again. "It's all the same usual crap about Nat being a Russian spy and me being a dumb carnie and you being an android or something. It just...struck a nerve, I guess." Phil nodded. Junior agents at SHIELD were notorious for gossiping, and 90% of it was false. What was true, though, was usually just as destructive.

"Clint, you know that a bunch of level threes who have never been in the field don't know what they're talking about." Clint raised his head, raising his eyebrows questioning. There were still angry furrows on his brow, and Phil had to tuck his hands in his pockets to resist reaching out to smooth them away. "You aren't a dumb carnie. You aren't a dumb anything, period. You're one of the brightest, most intuitive men I've ever met, and I once had to spend five minutes in a room with Tony Stark." That got a smirk, at least. "You're the most brilliant strategist that SHIELD has on the field, and I've never known you to make a wrong call. There's nothing in any way dumb about you, whatever they may have to say about it."

Clint's smile twisted almost ruefully. He pressed the button on the wall of the firing booth he was using to recall the wooden target at the end of the range. "Thanks for that, sir, but that wasn't what was bugging me. I've heard it often enough."

"Then what...?"

"Supposedly, you're a robot. Fury built you in a lab and programmed you to be almost human, but he forgot to add emotions." He took the target down from its hooks and began yanking out arrows, one at a time. " _Apparently_ , you might also be some sort of alien. Vulcan is the popular theory. Agent Michaels might be asking you to teach him the neck pinch." He dropped each arrow back into the quiver, one by one. "Oh, and a popular theory is that you just had feelings surgically removed so that you could be better at your job."

Clint turned back to face him, and Phil knew that he was staring, that it was probably a little creepy, but he couldn't look away. "That's what's bothering you?" he asked, amazed and wondering how the hell anything like this happened. Clint just shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed and fairly pissed. For _Phil's_ sake. "What they say about me?"

Clint nodded, avoiding Phil's eyes. "Clint, I've been putting up with rumors like that since I was a Ranger. They've never bothered me at all. Why do you even care?"

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Because you're the fucking best friend I've ever had, Phil, and the best fucking man I know, and the best fucking agent SHIELD has. You've always trusted me and looked after me, and god knows I haven't made it easy, and I'm not going to listen to a bunch of kids talk shit about you just because you're intimidating and don't like to let down your walls around people. You're brave and you're smart and crazily efficient, and none of them see that just because they don't know what it is they're looking at. They don't know you, not like I do, and they have no right to even think that you don't feel anything--"

Clint probably had more to say. His voice had kept rising through his rant, and he was getting more and more angry, but Phil was more than a little hung up on the fact that the reason that Clint was pissed at the juniors was because he thought he needed to defend Phil's honor, and Phil couldn't help himself. He interrupted Clint mid-sentence through the cunning strategy of stepping forward, grabbing the front of Clint's training vest, and yanking him forward into a kiss.

\- - -

_So that kiss a few days back was fun,_

_Until the world was ending and we had to run._

_But we've barely talked since,_

_And I've tried dropping hints,_

_Fuck it, do you want to go out for coffee sometime, like, now? Please?_

\- - -

Phil sighed happily, closing his eyes and reveling in the feeling of Clint lying naked beside him. The younger man had his head resting on Phil's chest, and his fingertips were tracing aimless patterns on the skin of Phil's hip.

"So it definitely took us way too long to get to this point, right?" Clint asked, sounding sleepy. Phil smiled, stroking his hand through Clint's short, sex-mussed hair. 

"Definitely. Maybe next time you should try flirting better," he suggested, laughing when Clint pinched him playfully.

"Hey, I wrote poems. Aren't those supposed to be romantic?"

"You wrote me poems about coffee and hating medical. Not exactly what I read to be professions of love, or even an interest in sex." He added, thoughtfully, "You never even wrote me that dirty limerick you promised."

Clint rolled over, onto his stomach, and propped himself up on his elbows so he could grin down at Phil. " _So I finally got into Phil's bed, and discovered that he gives really great he--_ "

Phil hastily covered Clint's mouth with his hand, and felt his laughter beneath his palm.


End file.
